Tonight, the moon was bigger than I’ve ever seen it—perfectly round, the color of the caramelized crust of crème brule. Two high school girls, one says, “I’m totally freaking out. I’m going to take a picture.” The picture will not capture how amazing the moon looks.
Astrologists call this a super full moon, or supermoon. A lifetime of supermoons wouldn’t be enough. That place we found each other, once.
Later, on my way home, the same drive down the Edens that I’ve taken a thousand times before, the moon is smaller, higher in the sky, the lights of the city like an average night. “Tuesday morning, never felt so good. I’m already in a day dream,” plays on XRT. To listen to that song and not think of you is not possible. Until halfway through it, I realize it is.
I’m thinking of work, my editor, a story she’s working on, and then I think of Noah, the baby kicking in my belly, of all the ways I’ve learned to live without you.
The song is not painful anymore. It doesn’t hit me deep. It’s just a song. Words I once knew.